


Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

by scrapbullet



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood and Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No more deals. She has escaped him many times, and now it is time to pay the piper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

“No more deals, Kirsty.”

Her palms are scraped raw. The pain is a tremulous thing of juddering nerves and white lightning; a sensation that is pain and pleasure both. It sings, a coy little melody that leaves her breathless; vivid stimulation that winds up her arms and pools in the valley of her collarbone, cascading outward as she is prostrated before him, nude and damp with sweat.

No more deals. She has escaped him many times, and now it is time to pay the piper.

_Oh, but the piper has such deft fingers._

They play her like an instrument, soothing the trembling parts of her that are strung tight like a bow string. Over-sensitive, Kirsty arches as her tormentor canes the delicate soles of her feet, only to then strip the skin away with horrifying ease; as he has done with every inch of her thus far, leaving her bare and slick; an open wound. There are no screams left in her. There is only _this_ , and the wet throb in her chest and between her legs, thudding in time with the beat of nails into her skull.

_It hurts. Daddy, please, it hurts-_

He hums, low and deep. Plucking at the soft meat of her lower lip and pinching it between thumb and forefinger, he smiles. “You are exquisite. Truly, you were made for this.”

_Please, no more, I can’t take any more, I can’t-_

“You can,” and her eyes roll back into her head as the weight of metal, blessedly cool as her body _burns_ , settles in amongst bone and muscle as if it were always meant to be. “You will,” and the softness on his scarred face is almost like caring, like love, like _obsession_ , fingers slipping into her mouth to press against her tongue.

Kirsty is floating. She exists only for him to play with, and so he does, with relish and black, covetous joy. He transforms her skilfully with obvious delight and she can do nothing else but take it, crying out soundlessly as the orgasm builds and bursts behind her eyes. 

She breathes. She does not breathe. She breathes again. He remakes her like she is putty, soft and malleable, by hook and by crook and with tears of rapture on her cheeks.

 _Daddy?_ she murmurs, wondering, for she can’t quite remember his face. 

“Hands do not summon us; only desire,” he replies, and his mouth is lush with the tang of blood, the pins adorning his head a desiderate, probing aggravation.


End file.
